Andy's Mind

There are billions of images. Trillions. Trillions of billions. Each of us sees a thousand images every few minutes. Each of us lives a thousand and a half minutes every day. Each day is a stream of images. And there are six billions of us on Earth, just now. There were billions before us. There would be some more after us. Each of those has seen their own, private stream of images. Trillions of billions of images, scenes, pictures. A torrent, a waterfall of images.

Some try to catch the best of those they are privileged to see. They are like fishermen in a flood or wanderers in a desert trying to catch and preserve the most beautiful grains of sand in a raging sandstorm. They are trying to freeze images as we freeze food, trying to preserve its color, smell, taste. Trying to conserve the sparks of emotions they ignited within.

If they catch them with a machine, we call them photographers. If they do it with a hand armed with a brush we call them painters. If they do it with bare hands we call them mimes. And those of us who do it with words are called writers.

I have been out fishing tonight. I caught some moments – beautiful and not, reflective or sad, mostly black & white. I carried them carefully home, like butterflies, still alive in the grasp of my mind, still flapping their wings feebly. I will now pin them down with words, freeze them, so that I could revive them later in an attempt to induce them in others.

But why? I don’t know and I don’t even care. I have to. They seem so precious, those few out of myriad. They’re mine.

James Burke is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting and underestimated contemporary intellectuals. Most people know him, I think, more from his TV appearances than writings. And while he is a scientific journalist and a historian of science, his most important contribution is his insight into the way in which human thought evolves across centuries towards higher degrees of complexity and abstraction producing a myriad of inventions we all know – and some we’ve already forgotten.

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It’s good there is grass here. Out there where I grew up we didn’t have grass, just soil. Grass was simply not allowed to grow. But here there is plenty of it, I lay on it, I feel its leaves beneath me and around me. It’s better this way.

The sun shines, it’s so hot. I just lie. I try to understand why I ended up here, in a park, in the middle of a summer day, disoriented, thirsty. I was sure she likes me. She smiled so broadly when she saw me, she took me in her arms with care and laughter. And then, fifteen minutes later she just tossed me, left me here on this lawn without a word.

I thought she likes him too. He was so worried when he carried me with him, when he paced up and down the alley, waiting. I could feel his hands tremble a bit just before she appeared. I thought she likes him enough to take me as his gift. But no. Soon after he was gone I flew into the air and felt here. I don’t get it. I try. Despite the thirst.

I have this strange feeling I know her. Or I knew her. Somehow her touch was familiar. But I don’t remember. I don’t have much memory. And much time. I’m just a rose.

It won’t be long now, in this sun. I feel thirst. I feel it coming up my stalk. Oh, I’m glad the grass is here. It’s better this way…

A tram is a bit like a library. I rode one to the city this morning. And as I watched my fellow passengers it occurred to me I could be watching books. Some worn down, large volumes, with paper yellowed by time, others brisk, fresh, thin copies just out of print. Some simple, some complex, some scientific, some poetic. All put into this tight, moving space.

Each contains a story inside, a huge novel, made up of moments, some sad, some joyful but mostly dull, mundane, menial. The best part of all is they are still being written, moving, changing as some memories fade and others rise, as emotions flow, as views change, as sounds vibrate.

If only I knew the secret Language of the Souls, I could read them, page by page. But I can only sense their vibes, the stirring behind their covers.

And I can browse my own pages of thoughts and cast them into words. Here.